Asylum
by XTearsXOfXInnocenceX
Summary: A random fic I worked on. And if you guess what it's based off of, you get a suprise. Details are inside. And no, none of this really happened. Yes, I was agnsty while working on this.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: If anyone can figure out what this is based off of, review and tell me what you think! If you get it right, you either get A: A story request, preferably based off of a song, or B: A request for me to draw a picture and post it on my deviantart account.

April 24, 2005

Yeah. I was stuck in this horrible place. 'This place' being Goodman's Asylum. I'm not crazy, though. I just don't talk. And I have an odd obsession with mirrors.

My name's Anita. Anita Willioworth. And this place really isn't an asylum…But it used to be. Now it's just a treatment facility for people with problems. But like I said, I'm not crazy. I'm normal.

As for my room, the orderlies let us decorate our rooms however we please. But the furniture has to be accepted.

I chose a large, full length mirror to stand on one side of my room. The rest was just a wooden bureau and a twin sized bed.

You're probably reading this journal of mine, thinking that I should put dialogue, describe things fully, what's with the mirrors, what I look like….and if I'll ever talk.

Fine. I'll start again with that.

There's no dialogue because I just stay here, in my room. I don't voluntarily go anywhere. I'm forced to go to therapy. Forced to go to the cafeteria to eat. Forced to do everything.

And the problem is I'm short. I can't fight back. I don't even have dwarfism or anything. I'm just shorter than normal. I'm about 4'9". Yeah. I get it…I'm short. You think I don't know? And I have long black hair. I'm not allowed to cut it, and I don't really want it cut. The patients here aren't allowed anything considered sharp, anyway--- The list is made up of things like CD's, scissors, actual silverware, glass…I'm just happy that they didn't ban mirrors. If they did, I actually would go crazy…

My fascination with mirrors started a bit after my grandmother, Elena, died. I'd heard an old Southern myth---When a person(s) dies, their spirit may become trapped in any mirror in their house that isn't covered.

So I naturally started staring into mirrors. I wondered if spirits could be trapped in mirrors… If Elena's spirit could live on through the mirror…through the looking glass…

Elena taught me so many things---how to draw, how to sing…She really loved to teach me all kinds of art. I actually aspired to be some sort of artist when I grew up… I started writing my own poetry, my own song lyrics, and I composed a few very short piano pieces. Then she died shortly after my sixteenth birthday.

That stopped everything I did. I stopped talking, I stopped singing… I stopped everything entirely.

Then I heard of the myth, and I started spending all my time staring into mirrors. Mirrors practically consumed my life. I was forced to get up, to eat, to go to school…

And that's when my own parents decided to send me to this horrible place. I was betrayed by my own parents… They sent me here, to this hell on earth…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Still, if you guess it, review.

April 25, 2005

My parents said that they wanted to help me. That they wanted to get rid of my problem. They said that I wouldn't go back home until I was better. They didn't understand me. Or couldn't. Or wouldn't.

They sent me to Goodman's Asylum. The place that's painted completely white. The place that doesn't deserve to be described. The place where the therapists are probably no better than terrorists.

The therapists. They hate me. They said I'm resisting treatment. That I should be sent back to my house. And yet I still "resist treatment". They haven't done anything. Every day, they expect me to talk to them. But I don't.

I just go back to my room and stare into my mirror. I stare. And stare. That led to thoughts… Maybe…Maybe…my soul was on the other side of the mirror. Maybe it was trapped there….But how to get it out? Maybe I needed to break the mirror. Maybe, if I break it, I'll go back to normal. Will it work?

Possibly.

I decided to tell the therapist currently had, Dr. Misa, about my conclusions.

Now it's time for dinner.

There's usually nothing edible, there…

But I can usually nick something that is.

----------

Now I'm back at my room. I spent part of the night already staring into my mirror.

Finally, I decide to sleep. I sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

And who can decide what they dream?

And dream I do.

A/N: I practically gave you the album the song is from.

Actually, the song isn't on the album.

It's more like a B-Side or something.

:D


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: OK, if you haven't guessed it, some of you will in this last chapter.

April 26, 2008

The sun was bright that day. I walked toward the only window in my room. The window was caged, as it should be. Bars on the outside. I felt like a bird. A bird so trapped and uncontent that it could not even sing.

I was just about to go stare into the mirror when an orderly came to take me to therapy. But I didn't fight. I simply walked ahead of him. Finally. I was at Dr. Misa's office.

I tried to say something. Nothing whatsoever would come out of my mouth. Nothing at all…..If the building caught on fire, would I be able to scream?

Dr. Misa nodded. She indicated that I should go. So I did. I went back to my room. By myself. No escort. And I stared into my mirror, as usual.

But suddenly I was mad. Mad at myself, my parents, my therapists, the world…

I got up and started beating the mirror. My hands, my legs, my arms…

All bloody, all bruised, all beaten up. And I knew I was cut. But I still thrashed, I still beat the mirror.

I knew shards were embedded in my skin. I knew I was exhausted, tired, hurt, bleeding…So much blood…

I try to make a sound. Try to scream for help. But I don't try to stop the bleeding. Nothing came out of my mouth. I pray for the pain to end. But it doesn't. But of course it doesn't. I just lie there, on the cold, hard floor of my room…

That was when I started to think, in the time I had left to bleed out…

Everyone tried to lie to me, to hurt me. Even if they were trying to help. They ALL treated me as if I were sick my whole life. I looked out my wrist and pulled a long shard of glass out of it.

I bled even more. I smiled. It had to be this way. I was always meant to crumble, to find my place among the ashes…

No one could decide who they loved, if they really cared.

Who did they love, anyway? Me? My reflection? Or the lie I usually hid behind?

I bled. I bled.

And I breathe.

And everything fades to black…


End file.
